


i remember the wolves in the timber

by shades



Category: Grimm (TV)
Genre: M/M, Monroe needs to take a deep breath, Nick is pushy for a straight guy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-11
Updated: 2012-04-19
Packaged: 2017-11-03 11:29:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/380908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shades/pseuds/shades
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They broke up a coven of witches, stopped an old woman shellacking her house with gingerbread and frosting, hung iron over their doors when the trespassing case didn’t go the Seelie court’s way, and somewhere in the middle of that Juliette left him in a sad, quiet way that tasted like defeat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For a [prompt](http://grimm-kink.dreamwidth.org/1735.html?thread=662215#cmt662215) over at grimm_kink.
> 
> Title from a Josh Ritter song.

They broke up a coven of witches, stopped an old woman shellacking her house with gingerbread and frosting, hung iron over their doors when the trespassing case didn’t go the Seelie court’s way, and somewhere in the middle of that Juliette left him in a sad, quiet way that tasted like defeat. 

“Aunt Marie,” Nick said, “She told me - for the best, really. Too dangerous to keep her close. Anyone, really.” He was dropping his vowels. They’d been drinking for a while.

“What about me?” Monroe griped, loose limbed and complacent on local organic IPA. 

But, aside from a few nights of binge drinking and Nick’s newfound pavlovian nausea to the smell of mint schnapps, life went on pretty much as normal. So normal, in fact, that Monroe couldn’t help wondering if the amount of time they spent on Monroe’s couch -making bundles of lavender and catnip, bandaging up burns after a run in with an agoraphobic Djinn, or, more commonly, catching a hockey game as they argued the qualities of Mt Rainer versus the microbrew de jour - if that had played a role in Juliette’s slow fade from Nick’s scent. 

“You’re true blue, Monroe,” Nick slurred, sliding off his stool with great concentration. He shook his head slowly. “Fuck, I’m drunk.”

“Yup,” Monroe said, but he drove him home, got him aspirin and water, and called him the next afternoon with information on the trade of sarcophagus contents in the Creature black market. 

Life it seemed, just went on.

*

In a perfect world there would have been a succubus, some dirty minded witch’s spell. Maybe then they’d have an out, some excuse. As it was, Nick fell asleep enough times on Monroe’s couch that a spare blanket and pillow had taken up residence in the living room. They had spent a week slogging through city sewers, looking for a Nepalese shaman who they thought was tied to the sudden, unseasonable sleet and snow. 

“C’mon” Monroe murmured, waking up on the couch at 4am to a commercial for shake weights that made his heart trip hard with remembered grief. He shook Nick’s shoulder; he’d fallen asleep sacked out against him, head tipped onto Monroe’s shoulder at an angle he’d regret come morning. 

“Oh, for chrissake, Nick,” he muttered, shaking him harder. His mouth was half open and when he lifted his head there would be a mark on his cheek from the seam of Monroe’s shirt. He smelled sweet and warm, like the piles of pups in front of the fire in the longhouse back home. Sleep-warm, snuffling; not for the first time, Monroe noted that his eyelashes were very long. 

Nick woke with a snort and flailing limbs. It figured he’d been out cold, Monroe had probably interrupted his single longest streak of deep sleep in two weeks. He was working two non-creature cases at the precinct in addition to the late nights in the sewers. The few hour he spent on Monroe’s shitty couch wasn’t really sleeping. It was just a stop-gate. 

“Hey,” Nick said, and yeah, he was sheet marked. Yeah, he smelled like the tofu fry-up they’d had for dinner, like exertion, a little bit like loneliness and a helluva lot like Monroe. That’s what happened when somebody spent all their time practically rolling around in your life, picking up your habits, stealing your flannel shirts and sharing your food. This was dangerous. This is what happened when you let someone in that didn’t even have a pup’s concept of what the rules were. 

“Hey,” he said quietly, looking at quirking mouth, sleep dazed eyes, and Monroe had just enough time to think ’Oh, fuck, he’s going to kiss me’, before Nick was leaning forward with one hand braced on his knee. 

Monroe wanted to be surprised, but it had been coming. The lack of personal space, already scant, was squeezed down to the smallest margins. The rapidly averted eyes when Monroe stripped down to boxers after his pilates routine. 

If he were a good man - and he was working on the good, but there wasn’t much he could do about the man - he’d gently push the Grimm away - say “I’m flattered”, say “thank you, but no.” But...Angelina had been gone almost a year and he’d gotten used to touching Nick, being touched by him, and his fingers curled in Nick’s shirt sleeves for a long moment. The kiss, when it came, was sweet, parted lips just barely brushing. When he pulled back his mouth was wet. So, he noticed, was Nick’s. 

“You are such an idiot,” Monroe said, breathless from exasperation, obviously. 

“You keep saying that,” Nick said, his thumb brushing Monroe’s beard. “Do you know what that word means?”

“Seduction by consistently placing me in mortal danger is seriously -”

“In fairness, mostly I’ve placed other people in danger by bringing you along - “

“Also, you smell like stale beer and I think you’re wearing my deodorant again, I told you that stuff is prescription only and it’s not cheap, dude-”

“I like the way it smells. You’re just changing the -”

“Anyway, this couch is awful,” Monroe said with finality. 

“Are you asking me to bed?”

Monroe spluttered, throwing his his hands up. “No. I mean, not yet,” he amended quickly, darting a look at Nick’s face. His lips were still wet, slightly pinked. “Not. We have to talk about -”

He waved his hands vaguely between them. 

Nick rolled to his feet, bare toes flexing against the hardwood. Monroe took a deep breath and let it out slow, resisting the urge to take a pace back out of Nick’s personal space. 

“Should I take you to dinner first?” Nick said, one corner of his mouth curling up. He was in a rumpled tee that was too tight across his chest and close enough that Monroe could feel the warmth and hope pealing off him. 

“Where? Uncle Bob’s all-you-can-eat pork BBQ?” Monroe scoffed. “Thank you, no, cheapskate. I’ll cook.”

‘I’ll bring the wine.”

“Fine.”

“Can I sleep in your bed?”

Monroe threw his hands up - stupid, pushy grimm - but somehow he ended up in bed beside Nick, chaste with boxers on, watching the slow crawl of dawn over the sheets, the sculpted curve of his jawline, cheekbones, nose. The sheets would reek of Nick until he washed them, his sweat, the memory of his grin. 

Nick shuffled closer in his sleep, threw an arm across Monroe’s stomach, and Monroe thought “fuck” with such clarity he may as well have said it aloud.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _One week earlier....._

It was a summer night, speckled with fireflies, when Monroe sat in the damp warmth of the moss at the edge of the deep-forest swamp and held his mug out for just one more dram. 

“You sad little fucker,” said Seamus O’Reed, four foot and eleven inches of red hair, bandy arms, and jovial alcoholism. He sat across from Monroe on a bed of dead leaves, packing his foul pipe with something less than legal. “Lone wolf my arse, Monroe, you’re nothing but an ol’ softie, mark my words.”

“Dude, _blutbad_ ,” he said, wincing when he sniffed the sharp, clear brew the _leipreachán_ had poured him. “Rending jugulars? Stalking little girls? Any of this ringing bells for you?”

Seamus scoffed, blowing smoke rings that briefly became a herd of unicorns, a castle wall, the soft features of a young, laughing girl. “The last thing you brought to pieces was a head of lettuce, and don’t go denying it. You’re more likely to reupholster your living room before chasing after anything red, let alone little or hooded.”

“I did get a good deal on that fabric,” Monroe conceded, letting his head tip back. Behind them, deeper in the swamp, Will-o-the-wisp was playing trickery with the scant evening light, ghostly little lamps flitting across the surface of the murky water, bleeding in and out of focus. Monroe shut his eyes against it - even to him the urge to wander deeper was cloying. He wasn’t on his own territory and the local fauna was quick to remind him of it. 

“What the hell are you guys even sitting on back there?” Monroe asked, jerking his head towards the lights. “You know gold is pretty last century, dude. Not exactly easy to fence. Go in to iPods. It’s probably going to be the next currency standard at this point.”

“Ah, money? Fuckin’ hell, mates, not my deal. I’m just fine in the bookstore trade, thanks kindly. Me and the lads are just makin’ sure no one stumbles across our little past time.” He held up a jug of poitin, smiling before knocking back a liver-shattering gulp. 

“That stuff is horrible,” said Monroe, hoarse from drinking it too fast. Still, he held out his mug for more; it made you warm from the stomach on out. It wouldn’t be the first time he ended up sleeping outside - if he was lucky he’d wake up early enough to go home, start his pilates, and be interrupted by the Grimm before he’d even gone through his warm up. 

“Now what’s that look on your face for?” 

Monroe turned the slight grin into a scowl, hunkering down behind his mug, which happened to be clutched in hands slightly hairier than they had been a moment before. 

“What look?” 

“The one that say ‘Oh deary me, grab the smellin’ salts, for I’ve a wee colleen on my mind that I’d not say no to havin’ a tumble with.’”

“You make no sense,” Monroe said, “The way you talk perpetuates unflattering stereotypes about your people.”

“Growl, growl, wolfie, wolfie, insert tail wag here,” Seamus said dryly. “S’not Angelia, is it? That girl’s a one woman bloodbath, Monroe. Not good for a recoverin’ addict, much as yourself.”

“It’s not Angelina,” Monroe snapped, and winced when Seamus started to grin. “It’s not _anyone_ , dude. Maybe I’m just enjoying your god damned company, ever think of that?”

“Nah,” Seamus said happily. “That doesn’t sound like you. You know, my lad, there’s been some tell of a strappin’ young man at your doorstep of all hours. Cuts a particularly...grim sort of figure, if you can catch my drift.”

“That’s not a drift, Seamus, it’s a fucking tide. It is about as subtle as a whirlpool. Aren’t you people supposed to have the gift of the gab or something?”

“You know, the night caretakers at Blarney castle often alleviate nature’s call upon that oh-so precious stone.” Seamus grinned sunnily, taking another swig from the jug. 

 “You are crude. And you’re incredibly indiscreet.”

“Says the man that can be caught answering the same call along his neighbor’s rose patch with a Grimm sitting in his living room, bold as you please.”

“Calm down, Christ,” Monroe said, sagging. “Yeah. He’s a Grimm. But he’s a cop, too, and-”

“That right there’s supposed to be a boon, is it? If I’m not afraid o‘ being dragged in by my toenails just because I happen to be vertic’ly challenged and of the mischievous persuasion, I’ve got to worry your man is gonna bust me and the lads over just a few barrels of poitin that - well, really, it’s practically _medicine_ , isn’t it?”

“It definitely destroys most life it touches,” Monroe muttered, looking balefully down at his mug. “Anyway, he doesn’t go around - smiting people. Or he hasn’t yet. He’s just going after people that come up at the station - real criminal cases. You know. Mostly.”

“Mostly,” Seamus repeated. 

“I don’t know, man, I’m not his keeper!”

“Ah, but he may as well be yours, is that it? They’ve a word for wolves that are pretty keen on humans and come when they call.”

Monroe wolfed out enough to show some fang. Seamus only sighed, blowing smoke that briefly around Monroe’s neck like a collar, little tags and all.

“Tsk,” said Seamus, shaking his head. “You’re not one for the easy path, laddy, never have been.”

“It’s nothing. He’s - dumb. He has no idea what he’s doing. It’s actually kind of pathetic.”

“Ah, yes, him. Bein’ pathetic,” Seamus said, and hefted himself to his feet. “Go on home, Monroe. You don’t belong alone out here, not so near the will-o-the-wisps, not such as you are right now.”

Monroe staggered as he stood and thought, but didn’t admit aloud, ’ _I totally, sincerely agree_.’

“Be gone with ya,” Seamus said, and passed over the half full bottle of booze. “And that there’s for when your man is...ah, lets say, broadcasting his patheticness onto you, yeah?”

Monroe could have said, “He’s a _Grimm_ ,” or something about the absurdly attractive ex-girlfriend who Nick had looked at with adoring eyes and who had caused him to smell anguished for weeks after she left, or he could say something about how it was better when Blutbaden lived alone because want and lust did terrible things to their control, and Nick didn’t really deserve getting involved with Monroe - clean living and exercise didn’t do much to get bloodstains off your hands, no matter what Nick wanted to believe. 

But, leaning a shoulder against the tree and looking out at the swamp - he was alone now, Seamus slipping between one shadow and the next - he just looked down at the sloshing booze and muttered, softly, “Thanks.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Meanwhile, back at the morning after_...

He’d grown up on a ranch in eastern Oregon, a nice sized territory, lots of things to hunt, far away enough from town that the things to hunt were only rarely human. 

“Too many accidents and the locals start culling the wolves,” his mother had sighed, sounding annoyed more than anything. 

There had been a few families living on the property, mostly his extended family, a few Blutbaden that had settled with them after rolling on to their backs and convincing his father that they were beta, lesser, and not a threat. Pack. There were children, pups, playful skirmishes, all night hunts, the occasional ‘accident’, but that was alright. It had been alright, back then, because he had been with family. With Pack. 

At night in the long house, there would be a bon fire and lots of undercooked meat, old stories traded back and forth - _‘deep in the heart of the forest there lived an evil old Grimm.’_ Monroe could still remember the smell of the place; muddy, smokey, a hint of wet dog. 

Home. 

It was something he missed since he’d gone clean. His house smelled - neat. Carefully maintained. Lysol and tofu and scented candles - he was Weider. There were a lot of things he’d given up. 

He had told Nick they had to talk - they _did_ have to talk, this was beyond fucked up - but when he woke it was to the welcome smell of someone else’s sweat, the soft gush of Nick’s breath - Nick, who was in his bed, covered in Monroe’s scent and hard against his thigh. It was the first thing to come close to smelling like home in too long. 

Monroe made a quiet noise and nuzzled his beard against Nick’s jaw, his stomach going tight and hot, muscles pinging awake in a daze. Beneath the covers they were drowsy and feverishly warm with shared body heat. It was natural to start dragging Nick’s shirt up above his nipples and push his boxers gently down his thighs. Nick came awake with a gasp, back arching. 

“I thought we were talking first.” If he meant it as a protest, he’d have to try again. 

“Really?” Monroe said, ducking his head to bite, then soothe the side of Nick’s neck. How long had it been since he’d done this with a guy? Years, probably, but this was muscle memory, deeply ingrained - him and Jared Wilcox when they were seventeen years old, rutting in the middle of a cornfield, barely getting each other out of their clothes. Nick was different, all grooved abs and responsive little noises. There wasn’t any teenaged awkwardness here. When Monroe wrapped his fist around Nick’s erection - skin warm, twitching into his fist, not as long as Monroe’s, but thicker, a perfect weight in his hand - Nick let out a noise that sounded almost pained. He tried to blindly seek out Monroe’s mouth, letting loose a soft, rumbling noise when Monroe ducked his head to Nick’s neck instead, methodically biting above where his collar would fall. “Well, Nick, you been following the city council elections? Looks like Wilson has a shot, but Sperling has that fresh, new-comer smell.”

“Shut up, shut up, shut up,” Nick gasped, hips rolling against his fist. He was leaking, it wasn’t fair, all that bitter, seaside musk filling up his lungs. Eyes are red, he thought distantly, he could feel it. _That_ was embarrassing, but Nick was looking at him with a wide, blissed-out expression, no fear at all, no disgust.

Well, then, Monroe thought, feeling foolish because he was _jerking Nick Burdkhard off_ , and the _eye contact_ was making him blush.

“Jesus, Monroe,” Nick said, sounding exactly like a man that hadn’t had anything but his own hand for months; lust, teenaged wonder, a little bit of fear that he would come embarrassingly soon. 

“Yeah,” Monroe said, his voice all growl, canines long enough to leave a bloody smear on Nick’s neck the next time he lifted his head. Monroe said “That’s it, that’s it,” and “You need it harder?” and “Christ, look at you,” while Nick dug his fingernails into his shoulders and squirmed and panted underneath him - Monroe could hold him without even trying and he let Nick know it by shoving him back down with kisses and his hips, giving him just enough room to writhe, just enough rope to hang himself with. 

“Monroe,” Nick said, and that was a noise he could get used to, “I- I’m gonna -”

“Do it.” Blame the alpha instincts, it came out like a command. Monroe could see the red gleam of his eyes reflected in Nick’s blown out pupils. Law enforcement must have made Nick pretty obedient, because it was just moments later when he cried out, jerking when Monroe worried the bite on his neck, and spilled over his hand, splashes of come getting on their stomachs, the sheets. Monroe worked him through all of it, teasing slow spurts out of him, looking down at Nicks’ softening cock in his fist.

“Oh, oh god,” Nick mumbled, batting Monroe’s hands away from his oversensitive skin. “Fuck, Monroe, that was -”   
Was he supposed to be able to contain the shit eating grin on his face? When Nick looked like that, spread out and pink lipped in his bed, left side of his head still sleep-matted? 

Monroe lifted his hand, sticky with come, and licked a drip off the heel of his palm. 

“Oh, god,” Nick said again. His mouth was puffy, wet. Monroe wanted to shove his fingers in, make him suck them, flip him over and fuck him into the mattress, make him cry out, make him beg, tie with him, keep him in bed until evening, mark him until even the dimmest Creature out there would smell Monroe on him and stay clear of his territory - 

“Wait, where are you going?” Nick said, lifting his head, exhausted and confused. Monroe was already five steps to the bathroom, boxers tented awkwardly. 

“Pilates,” Monroe said shortly, turning the water on cold. He splashed his face in the sink, breathing slowly through his mouth. “Doesn’t your shift start soon?”

“Monroe, Jesus christ, you didn’t even get off -”

“I’m _fine_.” He took another breath, then said, more calmly. “I”m fine, Nick. I just. I have a lot to do today.”

When he looked through the open bathroom door, Nick was watching him with a carefully blank face. 

“Sure,” he said easily enough. “I guess I’ll - I’ll go. Gotta swing home before I go to the precinct anyway-”

And Monroe knew, _knew_ that if he let this go right now, if he let Nick leave like this, they wouldn’t ever have to talk about it again - chalk it up to late night insanity. Maybe a psychotic break. It would be the right thing. Nick was kind of an idiot - he didn’t need Monroe make his life even more of a shit show. 

But Monroe remembered the long house, the smell of someone else’s sweat on his sheets, and said, quickly, “Tonight though. I’m making dinner, right? Don’t forget the wine. If you bring Yellow Tail I’m not letting you in the front door.”

Nick brightened with something a lot like relief. “Snob,” he said. It could have been any other conversation, except Nick slid past him to grab a wash cloth to tidy himself up and kissed him lingeringly before he left. 

Shivering under the water, Monroe tipped his head back against the tile, grumbling to himself. 

“Way to fucking go, Monroe.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Monroe broods. And shops. But mostly broods.

Looking back, Monroe’s been an unredeemable _idiot_ , which isn’t the kind of realization you want when you’re halfway through grocery shopping at Whole Foods with a sample of aged Gruyere halfway to your mouth. He scowled at a display of twelve dollar, hand pressed cider, as if that could possibly explain Nick Burdharkdt’s unprecedented interest in dick. 

When had it started? He rolled his eyes and shouldered his way up to the register. It had started like this:

They had been lying on the couch, one interchangeable Sunday afternoon, watching football replays and appreciating the young, blond reporter ESPN had running around the sidelines, tight pantsuit and wide blue eyes. 

“Man, I miss boobs,” Nick sighed, looking wistfully at the TV. 

“Yeah,” Monroe said, shrugging, and because he’d had a few beers, because the sag in the sofa was pressing their arms together, he added, “I dunno man, I’m more of a --” he gestured vaguely. 

“Legs? Ass?” Nick said, raising his eyebrows at him.

“Don’t say ass, it’s misogynist.”

“The word ass is not misogynist. I don’t think you know what misogynist means.”

“I _appreciate_ a well rounded - well. You get the idea.”

“But - hey, Angelina is a psychopath, but even I noticed - hey, don’t wolf out at me, I’m just saying.” He held his hand up defensively, grinning like a god damn _moron_ at the red bleeding out of Monroe’s eyes. Did they not teach self preservation in cop school?

“Not cool, dude.”

“Seriously, my bad,” Nick said, but he was still smiling, bastard. “Is she what got you fixated on...well rounded -”

“Jesus,” Monroe said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “That is absolutely none of your business-”

“Or maybe you imprinted on your first girlfriend, maybe-?”  

“Actually,” Monroe said, four beers for the better, kind of annoyed, and up for sharing. “First boyfriend. Alex Schummer - he was the high school track star.”

_Well shit_ , Monroe had just enough time to think before Nick’s face shifted from surprise to bemusement. “Oh _really_...”

“Yes, really,” Monroe said primly. He was a clockmaker, for god’s sake. He had different type of potpourri for each season. He’d handmade gnocchi the last time Nick had stayed for dinner. “Some detective _you_ are.”

“Huh.”

“Huh what?” And, yeah, okay, that had come out pretty defensive. 

“I just thought wolves mated for life.”

“Oh yeah? I thought that chimps threw feces at each other when they got pissed off.”

Nick held out his beer and clinked it against Monroe’s “Touche.”

And that had pretty much been that. 

“Twenty dollars and fifty four cents,” the bored check out clerk of indeterminate gender was saying, snapping Monroe back to the present. 

Grumbling, Monroe handed over his card and packed the groceries away into an organic, hand made, free trade, no artificial sweeteners included tote bag and reluctantly checked his buzzing phone. 

_Red or white?_ From Nick. Of course. 

What the fuck am I doing, Monroe thought, and texted back a lengthy treatise on which Syrahs would be acceptable. A moment later his phone buzzed again. 

_Milkbones okay for desert? :D_

“Dead man,” Monroe growled. “Dead.”


	5. Chapter 5

When Nick showed up - on time for once, ringing the doorbell before barging in - the red sauce was simmering and Monroe had just popped the garlic bread into the oven. 

“I, uh, here, Syrah, right?” Nick says, cocking his head at Monroe in a way that was - confusing, until Monroe realized he was being _oggled_ , which was so absurd it made him blush. He’d started out the night cooking in a pressed white shirt, open at the collar, sleeves folded back up: he’d put a lot of thought into it. But that had lasted approximately five seconds once the sauce was simmering, splattering him wrist to elbow, and he’d doffed it over a kitchen chair two hours ago. He was cooking barefoot in jeans and the undershirt he’d been wearing, an apron wrapped around his hips. 

“That’s the one,” Monroe said, fighting the urge to pull at the hem of his shirt. Instead he reached around Nick to grab the corkscrew, briefly feeling the heat of him, the rapid, nervous beating of his heart. 

Nervous. Of course. This was a date. Monroe had done his best to redact that little detail from his brain, but Nick was here, clean shaven, smelling like cologne and shampoo, handing him a bottle of wine with nervous, clammy hands. _This is ridiculous_ , Monroe thought, but without heat. Nick had spent enough meals at Monroe’s house that he seriously considered charging him board. Monroe had once stripped him naked in the lobby of a very nice hotel when Nick floundered into a poisonous web left by some breed of spider Wessen, not to mention the time Nick babysat him when Monroe mistook magic mushrooms for shiitakes at Rosalee’s and spent an afternoon trying to eat the wallpaper. This of all things shouldn’t have been awkward. 

But Monroe remembered what Nick’s collar bones had tasted like and the way he’d swelled in his hand the second before he came. Ducking his head, he flushed, but he let his forefinger trail across Nick’s knuckles when he turned away to open the wine. 

“Make yourself useful and do the salad,” Monroe griped and he could feel it, the weight of Nick’s relief.

\----

The wine made them loose and easy, a sweet taste mixed with the garlic and the sauce. By the time they sat down to dinner, Monroe had fetched another bottle from the pantry and they were both pleasantly tipsy, exchanging how-was-your-days with the ball of Monroe’s foot pressed into the arch of Nick’s. Nick had seen a Viper pumping gas near the station and scared the hell out of her when she noticed him watching. 

“It’s not fair,” he grumbled. “I’m a good guy.”

“Yeah, not at all the type to jump to conclusions about people he hardly knows anything about,” Monroe said, arching an eyebrow at him. 

“Oh, shut up,” Nick said, throwing a napkin at his face. He was flushed and bright eyed, finally slouching comfortably at the table, tension sagging out of his shoulders. His foot was still pressed tight against Monroe’s. 

“You know,” Monroe said, because it had to be said, because he’d been thinking about it, “You could just be having a gay crisis.”

Nick arched an eyebrow at him, maybe a little derailed by the non sequitur, but Monroe couldn’t help it. The wine had gone down very smooth. “I’m not having a gay crisis. Do I look like i’m having a gay crisis?”

Monroe was undeterred. He went on, gesturing. “Look, getting a hand job from a guy doesn’t make you gay. Ask, like, ninety percent of Hollywood.”

“Who’s giving handjobs to ninety percent of Hollywood?” Nick asked. “Ten percent of gay Hollywood guys with really busy social calendars?”

Monroe threw down his napkin. Nick was grinning at him, eyes dancing with laughter. “You’re infuriating.”

“Are you turning me down because you’re too busy blowing Tom Hardy and Robert Downey Jr.?”

“ _No_ , and if I was - wait, really? Tom Hardy? That’s your type?”

Nick shifted in his chair, eyes darting away. “No. I mean. No. You.”

“Me what?”

Nick sighed. “You’re my type.”

Well, that was ridiculous. “Recovering addict with bad social skills? Also, can I remind you of your Victoria Secret cleavage and, and - vagina possessing ex-girlfriend?”

Nick’s nose wrinkled up. “The way you say vagina makes it sound like some kind of skin affliction. And no, can we not talk about Juliette?” He reached out, hands fluttering around the sputtering votive between them. “I was kind of hoping to eat and watch a movie and fool around on the couch. Why is that so difficult?”

“Do you seriously have no idea?” Monroe rolled his eyes so hard it gave him eye strain. “This doesn’t seem weird to you? I. You could be infected by some kind of sex pollen.”

“Monroe.”

“Seriously! Weirder shit has happened.”

Nick gritted his teeth. “I’m of sound mind and body. Do you want a doctor’s note?”

“You seem strangely intent on sleeping with me,” Monroe said suspiciously. 

Nick threw down his fork, “You seem pretty intent on preventing it for someone that hasn’t said, ‘no thanks, not interested.’”

Well. There was that. 

“We should take it slow,” Monroe said, after a beat. 

“Right.” 

“Okay.” 

“But this time,” Nick said, gesturing with his fork. There was a splash of red sauce on his cheek. _Tactical error_ , Monroe thought, feeling the iron bars of his control twinge under all that aching want. “I get to get you off.”

“Fine,” said Monroe, who had the bad grace to sound pissed off about it. 

*

Nick got his way, obviously. Nick usually did. They were on the couch, a rerun of Seinfeld droning in the background, forgotten. He’d pulled Nick into his lap, his thighs braced tight around Monroe’s, elbows leaning on either side of his head when he leaned in to kiss him. Monroe had wanted Nick to feel like he was in charge, like he could get away if he wanted - the last thing Monroe needed to do was wolf-out and pin Nick down and miss his signals going from ‘ _yes, yes, that, yes_ ’ to ‘ _No, wait, I’m not ready_ ’.

But Nick wasn’t slowing down, he was making soft, sweet noises into Monroe’s mouth, rocking their hips together like they were - god, teenagers. That was the last time Monroe had felt like this, had to be. Hands trembling, shocked by skin, so astonished that he was getting it that it was hard to breath. He mumbled _Nick_ into his hairline, and found his hands under Nick’s shirt, gently stroking his sides, creeping round to tuck his hand down the back of Nick’s jeans. 

He didn’t deserve this. Tofu only washed so much blood from his hands. Nick was freshly heart broken, a manchild thrown into a world he only half understood - he was grasping at straws. He was grasping at Monroe’s fly. And Monroe lifted his hips and let him, because he didn’t deserve it, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t take it. He wasn’t a good person, after all. Most days, he wasn’t even entirely a person. 

“Nick, Nick,” he said, because Nick was sliding down onto the ground with Monroe’s jeans and boxers. His mouth was red and puffy, spit slicked, and he was staring at Monroe’s dick intently, grinning when it jumped when he slid his fist around it. “You don’t have to.” Monroe wished that hadn’t come out so weak. 

Nick only smirked at him, and murmured, “I get to get you off this time,” before bending forward, that mouth, that mouth, wrapped around him inexpertly, but hot and slick and soft. Experience be damned, Nick’s mouth was one small piece of perfection, and Monroe’s fists were in his hair, not pulling, just guiding. Oh, god, it wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair to Nick, not at all. Monroe was a bag of broken glass, all sharp edges, and Nick had just waltzed into his life like that didn’t matter, like Monroe was someone worth going down on his knees for.

“Nick,” he croaked out, a warning, batting him away, and when he came - howling a little, hips arched off the couch - he spattered Nick’s lips and chin. He’d pulled back a second too late. 

“Oh...” he managed a few seconds later. Nick wiped off his face on the hem of Monroe’s shirt. Dick move, Monroe thought, but bundled Nick back into his lap, kissing him and kissing him. 

“Good?” he asked quietly. It would have been easy to be sarcastic, roll his eyes, but there was a raw, exposed element in his tone that made Monroe’s chest twist. 

“You’re gonna want to give Tom Hardy a call,” Monroe said, grinning, shaking, thinking _’Maybe we could do this. Maybe we can try.’_


End file.
